


The Loneliest Nights

by cabritinho



Category: Markiplier Egos
Genre: Celine and Damien are referrenced, Don't read if you like being happy, Gen, Who Killed Markiplier?, you'll find no happiness here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 07:50:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15505752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabritinho/pseuds/cabritinho
Summary: Wilford reminisces.





	The Loneliest Nights

There were crumbling, ravenous ravines in Wilford's memory, unsurpassable to the might of men. Within the intoxication of his insanity, his history blurred at a certain point before altogether disappearing and leaving him to question. He only sparingly found answers when searching deliberately (or, that is to say, never at all). Thus ended his willing endeavors. He let the mystery of the bygone era slip through his fingers, and he questioned no more. 

However, on occasion, that ravine beckoned him on its own accord, daring him to gaze into its nothingness, for it might show him something. And sometimes it did. Nothing coherent, no, but just a shard of recollection that would spark a primal reaction within him. This happened almost exclusively within the nights of insomnia. He would stare at the ceiling above, and it would swirl and morph like a breathing, living thing--dark and lonely, lonely, lonely. That was the ravine.

That night, he remembered someone--a woman--but her face was lost, forgotten. She was draped in shadows as the daughter of Erebus. In that memoir, a hand outreached to him, frail with nails painted prettily in black. She had caressed his face then. His old face, too, was lost, but he knew she did, and in that moment, she was an angel of the night with a blood red halo. Somewhere from her cold void sprung a familiar warmth. It moved within Wilford an emotion he thought--hoped--he had repressed. A sweet, saving grace of an emotion, so pure he believed it not to be his. Surely a man so vile and broken as he did not own memories worth smiling about. He must be tapping into another's soul. 

Wilford lurched onto his opposite side in the stiff, makeshift bed, and attempted to erase the woman from his mindscape. 

Yet another--the son of Erebus--manifested forth, too. In a word, he was "solace". An old friend, maybe, all saintly and blue. Behind his eyes toiled a wave of sadness. Or possibly repentance, for crimes he hadn't committed, but felt the need to beg forgiveness for. That was how the blue saint was. He had placed his hand on Wilford's shoulder back then, and it was not very different from the dark daughter, either. (The two night visitors were two sides of the same coin, he felt.) There was a kiss waiting on the saint's lips that would never be realized, because he didn't know one rested there himself. Neither did Wilford, at the time. 

Or maybe there was no "at the time"; he convinced himself these thoughts were not his to begin with, but a mere delusion--just as he did on account of the woman. 

In truth, he was correct: these were not his memories. These were William's memories, and he was no longer William. 

Wrenching and twisting within him was a pain unbearable. This was why he yielded so long ago and gave up on trying to remember anything--because it hurt. He wanted not the sore reminder of what--who--he once had. It was decided that it was better to not remember, and bear a dull, empty ache, than to remember and have a stake driven through his heart, carving out a cavity that would never be whole again. Sometimes he could revel in his own madness, but knowing where that madness came from was another story entirely. 

The corners of his eyes felt dewy. It would be another lonely, lonely night.


End file.
